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I like things the same way I like people - with quirks of their own. Like the door which only opens when nudged a little bit, with a pull-and-push only you can perform. Or the coffee table which stops wobbling when leaning on a specific spot, because something happened in the past, something you don’t want to forget, and left it broken. There’s that teacup which has a little fracture around the rim so you’ll have to adjust it to your lips every time you’re taking a sip. There’s that tiny hole in your purse, which you’ll have to keep in mind. There’s an ink stain inside the pocket of your coat, a memento from that time when you couldn’t properly lock the cap. On the arms of your sofa are the drawings of a kid, and at the tip of your shoe is a dent from an angry kick.

I like when people have quirks like a coat, a teacup, or an old coffee table - quirks which only you can appreciate, just like the fact that only you can open that door and walk through it. Life is big, is it not? What do you think? It’s actually huge. With millions of dead people, trillions of heroes, and catrillions of adventure in it. So much so that you don’t bear any influence; your mistakes are mere flecks of dust, irrelevant. But there’s also the little things, those miniscule traces, of things and people. Life is a balance between this incomprehensible vastness and the almost invisible smallness. It’s a synthesis of remembering that greatness and being able to see the little things. There is a balance between what is clearly happening and the things that are only known to us. A short scene only you see in your grand picture, deemed rueful by others as they watch it. A funny moment like when a cat falls off a branch, plays with some flowers, starts walking away but keeps turning back as if the flowers are following it. You’re in a place between a smile that is missed by everyone, and a cry that is seen by them - but a little closer to your own smile.

Nobody knows. Yeah, nobody knows. Not even your closest ones. They cannot see where your balance is established. In your life, which seems unsuccessful, melancholic, and challenging, nobody can see the balance which is born of your tiny and invisible smiles and stupid jokes with yourself, and is the very thing that keeps you moving forward. Or why you still haven’t had that scratched wooden sofa polished, why you haven’t fixed that door, why you still have that teacup, that coat, that stupid guy/girl… They don’t know it and, to be honest, it’s better this way. Because life is hidden in a place where nobody sees you. It’s a quirk. A trace. A sensitive balance. A dent from a kick at the tip of your shoe. Now that I think about it, everything looks pretty when you look at it from a certain angle, to which only you’re privy.


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